Nothing but Pancakes
by RainyWorld
Summary: "Alright John, despite my slight miscalculations and your...lack of mental capabilities, the plan to finish Mrs. Hudson's pancake breakfast before she wakes up is still a go. No need to fret my friend, we've got this all under control!" "The kitchen is on fire." "WE DON'T NEED NO WATER, LET THE MOTHERF—R BURN!"


**Nothing but Pancakes – A Sherlock Fanfiction**

The gentle rays of the early morning sun were not the first things to wake Dr. John Watson. An alarm clock, placed strategically by the bedside, began beeping at approximately six am, waking the ex-army doctor. Unfortunately, after living in civilian life for only a few years, like any normal person, John did not rise with the sun. Instead, he slammed the snooze button and snuggled back into his warm bed once more. Living in the same apartment building as the infamous Sherlock Holmes, sleep became a rare and sacred privilege that must be honored by both parties' in silence when it came. Today, however, was Mrs. Hudson's birthday, so falling back asleep was not an option. Last night, both residents agreed to do something nice for their sweet old landlady by getting up early and making pancakes as a thank you for everything she has put up with over the years. Sherlock knew his roommate and friend would pull this, therefore, he had another secret alarm set up to wake John up for sure.

Having woken about fifteen minutes earlier, he readied himself by slapping on a helmet and a pair of slightly used running sneakers. There's only one way to wake up John now, and that is by force. Like a race horse out of its gate, Sherlock bolted up the stairs, yelling the exotic war cry of the consulting detective. The farther up the stairs he went, the faster his feet flew. Reaching the top steps, Sherlock, using his full body weight, slammed open the door to John's room and rushed in. With the added force and speed, the man leaped into the air, curled himself into a cannon ball, and aimed straight for the unsuspecting doctor's stomach.

"JOHN, WAKE UP!" Sherlock screamed before his skull made contact with John's blanketed vital organs.

The distressed cries of the victim pierced the morning air, described later by the detective as a cross between a five year old Silverback Gorilla in captivity furiously masturbating and a stray cat being skinned alive. John would later comment on how specific those two noises were and pleaded with his friend not to explain why he knew the sound of a gorilla having a wank or a cat being disemboweled. However, this took place long after the morning had ended.

"Really Sherlock?" John groaned, getting up much to the detectives delight. "Again?"

"It's the only way you'll get up," He pouted, flashing his ever-so-cute puppy dog eyes at the annoyed doctor.

"…But every morning?"

Sherlock's sly smirk was enough of an answer. Quietly, the two filed down the stairs: one clutching at his stomach, the other failing to hide his Cheshire Cat grin of victory. Hopefully, now that their little fiasco was over, they can focus on what's important. Thankfully, the boys bought all the ingredients, and extra in case of mistakes, last night so they could make buttermilk pancakes from scratch. It was John's brilliant idea from the get-go to make buttermilk pancakes for Mrs. Hudson because every morning she makes them their breakfast; their favorite being the warm fluffy pancakes she made every once in a while. Making breakfast for Mrs. Hudson on her special day was the least John and Sherlock could do after everything she's done for them. The two were ready and willing to take on the challenges of creating pancakes that early Saturday morning.

"Do you know how to make pancakes?" John asked, staring at all the ingredients on the table

"Not in the slightest," Answered Sherlock, calculating the situation he found himself in. "Pass the flour."

John handed the five pound bag of flour to his companion. The detective thanked him, then dumped the entire contents of the bag into a huge mixing bowl. You can already tell this whole experience is going to be disastrous. As he added water into the bowl, turning the mixture into a gooey white paste, Sherlock spoke up:

"Hey, let's turn on some music. Grab my phone and choose something, would you John?"

Seizing Sherlock's smart phone, John began shuffling through the albums until he found something particularly interesting.

"Why do you have Beyoncé's greatest hits on your phone?" He inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Because," Sherlock began without looking up. "Beyoncé is my spirit animal. She tells me that I am a strong independent woman who don't need no man!"

"So, you self-identify as a woman now?" The doctor asked, amused by his friend's previous statement.

"Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Sherlock," John's usually expressive features went vacant. "Today, is Saturday."

"Hand me the eggs please."

Without another word, and forgetting the music entirely, John handed Sherlock a few eggs which the detective dumped haphazardly into the paste.

"How's the buttermilk coming along?" Sherlock questioned his friend who stood over the stove.

"The butter has melted and I'm about to add the milk," Stated John happily, getting ready to pour a generous amount of dairy into the hot pan.

"Wait," Realization hitting him like a bullet to the chest; yeah I went there. "Are you adding one percent or skim?"

"Ah," John looked at the carton. "It's two percent."

"Really John? Two percent?" Sherlock glided over, grabbing the milk from his hands. "Do you want Mrs. Hudson to get fat?"

"Milk makes you fat!?"

"Duh," Sherlock said nonchalantly, rolling his eyes.

Lightly pressing his palms to his belly, John finally understood why he had gained an extra five pounds in the last three months, despite having signed up for hot Pilates around that time. He claimed it was just water weight that would sweat out after a few sessions, but Sherlock didn't believe him and suggested that John join him at his next Zumba class. Interpretative dance aside, Sherlock decided to resolve the milk issue by grabbing the skim they kept in the fridge and pour it in with the butter. Letting it simmer for a few minutes, he then incorporated the milky soup into his own mixing bowl, stirring it thoroughly into a dough. Peering into the dish, the two gazed at their bizarre creation that strangely bubbled.

"It's alive!" Sherlock joked.

"Should we scoop out the egg shells?" John inquired, feeling like a real mad scientist's assistant.

"Nah its fine," He said, brushing off the question. "Do you have the cake pans set up and ready to go?"

"Sure do!" The doctor exclaimed excitedly, holding up the cake forms. "This was a lot easier than I thought it would be!"

Proud of their supposed success, the boys poured their strangely tough batter into a cake pan. Setting the oven to three hundred fifty degrees, Sherlock placed their monstrosity into the oven then sat back. Little did they know that pancakes are not literal cakes, therefore they do not belong in the oven and do not normally bake like cakes. Fifteen minutes passed before the roommates noses crinkled at the smell of something burning. Much to their horror upon re-entering the kitchen, columns of smoke were seeping out of the tiny oven making the glowing red lights dancing wildly inside more visible. Rather than taking the proper precautions to extinguish the flames, the two strapped themselves tightly in makeshift armor made of aprons and oven mitts before ripping out the pan and stomping on the charred remains of their abomination.

"Well, that could have gone better," John gloomily stated, throwing his gloves on the counter.

Sherlock sighed. "Well, you know what they say; if at first you don't succeed, buy a pancake mix from the store."

"I have never heard anyone say that," He said, his voice dripping with snark.

"John, just trust me on this," Exclaimed Sherlock. "Now, one of us needs to go to the store while the other stays and attempt to remake the pancakes by themselves…ONE, TWO, THREE, NOT IT!"

"N—No fair," The ex-army doctor whined. "You do this every time! I want a rematch!"

"So," Sherlock smirked slyly. "You want to challenge me?"

With lightening-like speed, Sherlock grabbed hold of a cooking pan from the sink. He held the black rubber handle as though it were the hilt of a sword, his stance radiating power and grace. Seeing his friend's shocked yet amazed expression, Sherlock's smirk widening into a full grin; his eyes glowing with playful malice. John knew his friend boxed from time to time, but he had no idea that Sherlock was into fencing. Now, the doctor stood before the beautiful yet cunning beast with his pride on the line. Picking up a pan for himself, John clanked it lightly against his opponent to accept the blatantly childish challenge.

"En garde, good sir," John grinned, feeling like the Devil's advocate for agreeing to play along.

"Losersayswhat?" Sherlock asked incoherently, going wide-eyed and innocent.

John stepped back in surprise, all defenses dropping. "What?"

No sooner had John finished getting the word out, the consulting detective slammed his opponent's frying pan down with his own, winning the match. Angry about being doubly duped, I mean, who wouldn't, John wasn't going to take his lose with dignity and grace like a regular adult. He knew how he was going to get back at his cheating roommate, a surprise wedgie! When the unsuspecting detective had his back turned, John slowly snuck up behind him, grabbed the hem of the man's undergarments, then yanked with the strength of thousand suns the Great Sherlock Holmes' bee pattern tighty whities uncomfortably over the his royal blue pajama pants before scurrying out the door, laughing all the while. Excessive pain shot across Sherlock's tender regions, giving birth to what he described as a new form of rug burn. Underwear burn? Anyway, he later privately consulted Mrs. Hudson on where she kept the rash cream. Although thoroughly humiliated, Sherlock chose to be the bigger man, not just because he couldn't run, waddling carefully back into the messy kitchen to get started on the flapjacks. I guess you could say he… turned the other cheek. …Where are my sunglasses?

Tesco was relatively quiet for seven o'clock in the morning; barely anyone was walking about. Although, most supermarkets don't get a lot of business early Saturday morning. Going to the grocery store in the morning is a perfect because it's practically empty. The only people who hang around the store during this time of day are the antisocial cashiers, early to bed, early to risers, and ex-army doctors looking for pancakes mixes. Unlike England, America is home to the Internal House of Pancakes, so if Britain had an IHOP John and Sherlock wouldn't be in this mess. I digress. Doctor Watson continued wandering up and down the aisles until the softly spoken lyrics of the Ridin Solo parody song began emanating from his pants pocket.

" _I just wanna touch your hand, and tell you that you're the man~! And your cheekbones are so strong, and you look good in this thong~! No homo~! No homo~! No homo~! No ho-"_

"Hey Sherlock," He greeted swiftly, glancing at the rows of packaged goods. "How's is going?"

"Fine…but I do have one question," The man on the other line seemed distracted. "What color are pancakes usually?"

"Normally brown. Sometimes gold. Why?"The doctor asked hesitantly.

The unnerving silence that followed bothered him. John pictured Sherlock staring at the charred remains of a pancake which stressed him out greatly. With the way things were going, his hopes of having breakfast before Mrs. Hudson wakes up began to dwindle. New errors in his otherwise flawless plan continuously pushed their goal further out of reach. It didn't help that Sherlock's carefree attitude about the situation was steadily wearing down the doctor's patience.

"…Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure!" He yelled into the device, causing a few shoppers to glance at him.

John gave an apologetic smile, silently excusing himself for his outburst.

"I'm very sure, Sherlock," Uttered John, his voice significantly lower.

"Oh…," A pause. "I think I did something wrong. Come back home and help me."

"Not yet, I haven't found the pancake mixes."

"What do you mean you haven't found the pancake mixes?" Demanded the detective, slightly annoyed by his friends' inability to find things. "You've been gone for like thirty minutes!"

"I can't find them, there's just a bunch of syrup," John said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Why would there be only syrup?" Scoffed Sherlock, rebutting the idiotic comment.

"I wouldn't know, I don't design grocery stores," John said snidely.

Sherlock scowled upon hearing such a stupid remark from his friend. Now it was his turn to be angry. Why was he getting all pissy over doing something so trivial anyway? If it wasn't for John's brilliant plan to make pancakes for Mrs. Hudson's birthday, he would still be in bed sleeping. Why couldn't they just take her out for breakfast or better yet give her a gift card? Sherlock's mind digressed.

"Ok, check in the next aisle." He commanded nicely, growing impatient with his friends sass.

"Fine,"John huffed.

Sherlock listened to the gentle taps of the ex-army doctor's feet on the linoleum as he made his way through the store, waiting for a response.

"There's still more syrup."

"What do you mean there's still more syrup!?" He yelled, his judgmental tone unwavering.

"It means I'm looking at a buttfuck ton of maple syrup!"

"Why are you looking for pancake mixes in the maple syrup aisle!?"

"Quit yelling at me!"

"I'm not yelling, I'm just talking with slightly louder volume!"

"Sherlock," John let out an exasperated sigh, finally fed up with his roommate's pessimism and lack of humor. "I'm not gonna play this game. We shouldn't be arguing so early in the morning. I don't even know why you are so upset about this. Call me back when you've calmed down."

With that, John disconnected abruptly leaving his friend in silence. Sherlock, who had yet to realize their conversation ended, continued to rant and rave about his incompetence in completing the most simple of tasks. A good thirty minutes passed before he realized that the ex-army doctor was deathly quiet. John was never this quiet when he's having one of his sissy fits. He usually tries to interject every so often, but would go unheard because of the high-pitched whining sounds streaming from the detective's mouth. Worried and a bit annoyed by his friend's silence, Sherlock asked if he was even listening to him. Hearing only silence, the detective finally looked down at his phone to see that the caller had already hung up and his screen reverted to black.

"What the f—he hung up on me!" Sherlock cried, throwing his phone across the room in a fit of rage. "I am so spitting in his mouth when he falls asleep tonight!"

Shortly after Sherlock hung up his phone by smashing it against the wall, John returned to the comfy lodgings of 221B with a bag full of goodies. After asking an unenthusiastic looking teenaged employee where the pancake mixes might be, John found everything and more they needed to get started again. With three Aunt Jemima boxes and six large bottles of Mrs. Buttersworth, there was no possible way they could screw up; or so he thought. Strangely enough, John strode in only to find Sherlock staring up at a partly cooked pancake lodged to the ceiling.

"Is that a pancake stuck to the ceiling?"

"Yup," Detective Holmes stated, accentuating the p to make the letter pop.

"Why is there a pancake stuck to the ceiling?" John asked, staring at the pancake with equal intensity as his roommate.

"I told you over the phone, didn't I? I had a little accident."

"Sherlock, that was over an hour ago. How is it still stuck there?"

"Don't know. Probably something I added to the batter."

"Did you just invent a new super glue?"

"If I did, I'll split the profits with you."

"Sure. We've been needing a hot tub anyway," John said sarcastically, smiling up at his friend who was just coming out of his pancake trance.

Sherlock marched back into the kitchen like a man on a mission, whipping open every cabinet door as he went searching for something. Walking in after him, John noticed how chaotic the room appeared. Not only was the ceiling affected by Sherlock's little "accident," the tables, cabinets, and even the floor lay covered in batter splatter. It was as if the detective was building pancake flavored bombs that ended up backfiring. The sad part is that John knows Sherlock could do something like that if he put his mind to it. He also knew that he will be the one cleaning up the over grown baby's mess.

"Found it!" Shouted Sherlock, holding up a small portable grill.

"What's that?" John asked.

"It's a microwave made specifically for cooking fish," John blinked slowly, not getting the joke at all. "It's a portable grill, you moron."

John let out a soft sigh and grabbed a nearby dishcloth. If Sherlock was going to have another one of his hissy fits, he didn't want to get involved. He was going to ask him why they needed a portable grill when they were trying to make pancakes, but if he was going to be rude he rather start cleaning up. After this is over, all he wanted to do is lock himself in his room and marathon Doctor Who for twelve hours while eating raw cookie dough. John can't deal with this shit anymore!

"Uh-oh," John heard Sherlock say. That can't be good.

"What did y—HOLY MARY MOTHER OF SHIT!" John screamed, turning to see the small grill overtook with flames. "Did you try to grill the pancake!?"

"I thought it would be easier!" Sherlock wailed back, desperately trying to stamp out the kitchen fire with a damp rag.

"So, you didn't realize that the batter would fall through the grate if you tried!"

"Shut up! I'm having a bad day!"

"It's only 7:30!"

"What are you boys doing!?" A voiced called out from the smoke.

A frazzled Mrs. Hudson appeared through the smoke cloud, clutching a small fire extinguisher under her arm. She had woken up from the smell of something burning and hurried downstairs, knowing full well where the source was coming from. Like a trained firefighter, Mrs. Hudson sprang into action, dousing the kitchen with thick, white foam. In an effort to help, John and Sherlock opened up all the windows to remove any excess carbon dioxide and dry chemicals floating about. When the chaos had ended, the landlady turned towards them, glaring. Both boys sideways glanced at each other, letting out a halfhearted, "Surprise."

"I just wanted a nice peaceful morning so I could sleep in and not have to worry about the whole street burning to the ground," Mrs. Hudson started with a face that said: I'm not mad, just disappointed. "And on my birthday of all days! What on earth were you thinking!?"

"We, ah, wanted to surprise you…," Sherlock said, looking down at his feet like a young child being scolded by his mother.

"Well, you certainly surprised me," Mrs. Hudson huffed, crossing her arms.

"I swear this whole thing was an accident," John tried explaining. "We didn't mean to start a fire. We were just trying to—"

"John and I wanted to surprise you by making pancakes on your special day. You're always doing nice things for us like making us breakfast and cleaning up my clutter; so we wanted to do something special for your birthday, but it ended in disaster," Sherlock gazed at his buddy, reading his guilt. "We're really sorry. Please forgive us."

The sweet old landlady of 221B looked taken aback for a moment; she never expected such a sincere apology to come from Sherlock. In their eyes, she could see cracking dams that would break into a river of regret if she decided to light the fuse. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meant the world to her, even if they got on her last nerve every once in a while, they could do no wrong by her. Their original intentions were innocent and sweet and went through hell trying to make things perfect. How could she be upset with them when all they wanted was for her to be happy? On that sunny Saturday morning, Mrs. Hudson's smile grew more radiant and lovelier than one could imagine. Long after her passing, the detective remembered that moment saying: Mrs. Hudson was the kind of woman you love to watch smile, you knew she was smiling because she loved you.

"Oh, I knew you boys cared!" She exclaimed in excitement, wrapping the two up in a great big bear hug. "Of course, I forgive you! Your love is the only presents worth receiving!"

The two rested in Mrs. Hudson's loving embrace, thankful that she forgave them despite having caused $50,000 worth of damage. Though Sherlock's backup plan was to hug her if she did get mad because everyone knows that all problems are solved with hugs…somehow.

"But for the record, it was John's idea," Sherlock mentioned after a while.

"Ruining the moment Sherlock," said John, enjoying the hug.

Letting them go, Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she wandered off, "You know what would be an even better birthday present?"

"What?" John asked, watching her disappear from view.

"Cleaning up this mess," She said reemerging from the cupboards, throwing a mop and a broom in their direction. "Your mess, your responsibility!"

"Aren't you going to help?" Whined Sherlock, observing her birthday swagger step as she left the room.

"Not your housekeeper!" She yelled back, trotting back upstairs to sleep some more.

John grinned, the day may not have gone according to plan, but as long as Mrs. Hudson was happy, that's all that matter. Mrs. Hudson, being the wonder woman she is, deserved to be treated no less than a queen on her birthday. If that meant John had to endure scrapping and scrubbing for the next three hours, then he was willing to suffer. It felt almost like a victory to him. Feeling weirdly motivated, John cleared his throat to get his friends' attention, who was furiously whacking the glued flapjack with his mop. With his audience hushed, John began his speech:

"Today we have won a long and arduous battle between the gloppy forces of Aunt Jemima and the sticky troops of Mrs. Buttersworth. Together we emerge from the battlefield sticky and gross, leaving in our wake a chaotic mess of goo needing to be cleaned. Getting flour in places flour shouldn't be and nearly burning down the kitchen, twice. Today, though victorious, our hands will forever be stained with maple syrup, or at least until we find better soap. All this," He gestured towards the disheveled kitchen. "To make an old woman happy on her birthday. Take a deep breath Sherlock, because this is what victory smells like."

"Victory smells a lot like pancakes," Said Sherlock beaming.

"Yes Sherlock, yes it does."

* * *

 **When I started this, I thought I was going to be posting the first week of July, but instead this ended up becoming one of my summer projects. So here is one of the many stories I promised to deliver even though it's three months late. I can't promise I'll update more frequently because my writing all depends of my schedule, laziness, and motivation. On that note, because I did rush to get this out, I'm fairly confident my writing and grammar is a freaking mess. So, unlike Car Troubles, I have little to no confidence in this one. If someone writes a bad review for this I'll probably be like, yeah, I can see where you're coming from. Thank you to everyone who waited patiently and hopefully next time I'll deliver faster and be happier with the turn out.**

 **I do not own the characters nor the show. Please support the official release.**


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